


clumsy hands in a dark room

by neonheartbeat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Cunnilingus, Dyn Jarren is a Virgin, F/M, First Time, Gen, M/M, Overstimulation, Sexual Repression, Smut Hut 2: Electric Boogaloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Omera isn't sure how to approach the Mandalorian, especially not after a few conversations get personal. The Mandalorian has never considered loopholes in the particulars of his traditions, and has no idea how to navigate his complicated feelings toward his host.Fortunately, Omera might just find a workable compromise for both people involved.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), Omera & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 382





	1. Chapter 1

Sorgan was always at its most beautiful at dusk.

Or so Omera thought, anyway: some people disliked the constant buzzing of the insects, but she found them soothing, like a lullaby. The deep blue evening would blanket the sweet-smelling bine trees before the watery pools would shine in the light from the Two Sisters, bathing the bracken and the forest and the open fields of the village in gold and silver.

This evening, she was standing at the door of her home, breathing in the soft night air: Winta was asleep already, worn out from a long day of playing with the other children—and with the Child, the strange, sweet little thing that the Mandalorian had brought with him, who had an affinity for trying to eat frogs and only spoke in gurgles and coos as it toddled across the ground. Omera had to admit that she was growing to like the Child, and she admired the Mandalorian's protectiveness of it. Sipping at her bone broth, she reflected that she was also growing fond of the Mandalorian, perhaps more than was strictly appropriate from a host to a guest.

He never removed even a single piece of his armor, and out of respect for his customs she purposely stayed in her own curtained-off room until she heard him up and about outside early in the morning, and had told Winta to do the same. He was cool-headed, a man of little words, and moved with only the efficiency that required him to move between two points—but he had saved their village from those Klatooinians, and she felt that whatever she was doing was simply not enough to express her gratitude properly. Omera was not blind, either: she was sure the set of his head and body language on the day he'd taught them how to shoot had been meant to be an impressed expression, and the fact that she had impressed a big-shot bounty hunter from moons-knew-where was enough to give her a warm feeling of triumph.

A rustle in the grass alerted her. Omera looked up. He was coming toward the house, beskar armor gleaming in the moonslight, and he halted when he saw her, helmet tilting forward in a gesture of acknowledgement. "Evening," he said, modulated voice a little fuzzy. She liked his voice, or thought she did: maybe he sounded totally different under the mask, and the modulator changed it entirely.

"Yes, it is," she responded, slightly puzzled, and then understood. "Oh. It's a greeting offworlders use at this time of day? I've heard Cara Dune say it."

"Yes," he said. "Do you say something else?"

"We say 'Sistershine'," she informed him. "Because of the moons. The Two Sisters. One of them is always shining. They're never new together." She shook her head, waving a hand with a smile. "I'm sorry, would you like some bone broth?"

"Yes, thank you," he said, stepping up to the porch.

"I'll put a bowl in the barn. Was your day productive?"

"It was." The Mandalorian joined her at a respectful distance, about a half-meter away, with his hands folded in front of him like he wasn't sure what to do with them. "Perimeter checks, some recon. I don't think your Klatooinian raiders will be showing their faces anytime soon."

"Thank you," she said sincerely. "Truly. You coming here… it was a gift."

He shrugged off the compliment as he usually did. "I'll be resting. Good night, Omera."

* * *

She remembered the bone broth an hour later, and almost panicked: what kind of a host forgets to feed their guest? Quickly, Omera stepped back into the house, re-heating the broth over the fire to a boil, and added in a few chunks of grinjer just for good measure. He must be hungry, if all he'd had to eat today was the morning meal.

She took it out to the barn, to the mat of reeds that acted as a door and protected the building from the elements. "I'm so sorry," she began, tapping at the heavy weave. "I forgot about the broth."

"I'm not, um," said a voice from behind the mat, and immediately she knew he was out of his armor: his voice was unmodulated and _did_ sound the same (or was she imagining it?) bar the slight fuzziness given to it by an electronic filter.

"Oh!" she interrupted, flustered. "No, it's all right. I'll just, uh, leave it here. By the door." She set the bowl down carefully. "I'll just, I'm going now," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."

No answer came from behind the door, and Omera backed away quietly.

* * *

In the morning, she came out, blinking in the sunlight, to see the bowl washed and tipped up on its side carefully with the rest of the clean things from last night's meal.

On the woven mat, propped up against the bowl, was a single spindleblossom spray, the blossoms gleaming like the sun.

Omera smiled and picked it up. Spindleblossom grew in the krill-pools, and smelled like nothing, but were pretty to look at, with their yellow flowers and delicate patterns. It must be a thank-you from him for not coming into the room while he was out of his armor. She tucked it into the knot of hair at the back of her head and started work on the porch, sweeping the dust away, then went about her daily home-keeping tasks: beating out the carpeting, making breakfast, sending Winta off to play with the Child, hiking up her skirts and washing the wooden bine-beam flooring in the main room.

He came in around midday, and cleared his throat awkwardly: she was on her knees with her rump in the air, trying to get a dropped tool from under a bench. "Oh," she said, sitting up. "Hello."

"I… see you got my, uh. Gift." He shifted his weight from side to side.

"I assume it was—because I didn't come straight in. Last night." Moons, this was awkward: she hadn't felt this tongue-tied over a man in over a decade. "I didn’t mean to intrude. Does your… belief system, your traditions, do they forbid someone listening to your voice? Out of the helmet?"

He chuckled, a burst of short static. "Not that I'm aware."

"Oh, good," she said, smiling. "I was afraid maybe I'd condemned you to, ah, whatever awaits Mandalorian sinners."

"Not likely," he told her, and sat cross-legged on the mat, looking at his gloved hand. Omera looked, and saw that the ochre-colored leather was torn, the skin beneath bleeding.

"What's that?" she asked, standing and making her way over.

"Nothing much. I was checking the south side of the village, and came across a vine with some pretty nasty spikes." He turned his hand over, and Omera could see the blood dribbling down it.

"Did the vine have yellow or green thorns?" she asked, going immediately for the med-kit.

"Green. Why?"

Omera nodded. "Mmm. If it was yellow you'd have been poisoned with a deadly neurotoxin. As luck has it, you're just going to have a sore hand. And possibly hives. That is, if I don't clean the sap out of your cut right now." She opened the kit and took out a wad of moss, which the Mandalorian tilted his head at quizzically.

"What is that?"

"Krillgif. Don't ever smoke it, it'll give you hallucinations. But if it's mashed at exactly body temperature, you've got yourself a very good antiseptic that kills greenfang sap toxins." Omera smiled and shoved a wad into her mouth, chewing it up firmly. "I use it all the time on Winta when she scrapes her knee. Take your glove off—or, wait, is that—"

"No, that's fine," he said simply, and removed the glove, revealing a hand, and Omera felt scandalized just by the appearance of skin. It was a thoroughly unremarkable and yet completely remarkable hand: human, short, blunt nails, thick fingers, skin untouched by the sun in years and pale. Blood stained the skin at the meat of his thumb, and Omera took his hand, flipping it over gently in hers to see the curving line carved across it.

He grunted a little under his breath and Omera stopped. "Are you all right? If it hurts, I can—"

"It doesn't hurt," he said, and she nodded, then spit the blue-green krillgif out into her other hand and pressed the dribbly mush into the cut. His back stiffened slightly, but he did not make a sound of protest, and she bound it up in fineweave.

"You can keep this on for about three hours. It should be all right after that."

"Thank you. You're very kind." He did not pull his hand away, and Omera pretended to press the mush in more gently, anything for an excuse to touch his bare skin, which was warm and strangely smooth. He had calluses at the base of his fingers, on his palm, likely from handling so many blasters and pulse-rifles and moons-knew-what else, but everywhere else his hands were soft, protected by gloves most of their existence.

"How…how old are you?" she ventured. "I'm sorry. That's personal."

"No, it's not. I don't really know," he said, helmet gleaming as it tilted in thought. "I think—I think I'm maybe in my mid-thirties. Maybe late thirties. Early forties? I'm not sure."

"Oh," Omera said. "Did you never know your day of birth, with your tribe?"

"No. I had forgotten it by the time I went to be with them," he said simply. "What about you?"

"Thirty-eight," she said immediately, disbelieving that he wasn't pulling his hand away. "I—I'm sorry. If touching you is forbidden—"

"It's not," he said, almost too quickly before clearing his throat and repeating, "It's not. Besides, you're administering medical care, which isn't forbidden, so much as I'm, uh, encouraged to perform it on myself. Just... taking off the helmet in front of someone."

Omera frowned. "Surely there must be exceptions. Is it just people who can see you? What about blind people, or species that don't perceive form through sight?"

He chuckled and leaned back, still letting his hand rest in hers. "I've never tried to find a loophole in it. Admirable." The helmet tilted to the other side, his shoulders relaxing as he considered. " The true issue is that revealing your face removes the anonymity of…being one of the Tribe, being a Mandalorian. You lose that face, and become exposed as another. So, yes. I could technically take it off in front of a blind man. I wouldn't lose my face, and he would never know it."

"Or a blind woman," said Omera, eyes flashing up quickly to judge his reaction.

There was the slightest, slightest moment of hesitation, and he drew his hand back, tugging the glove back on. "You've…been very thoughtful," he said haltingly. "I should go back to check the perimeter."

Omera screwed up every last remaining atom of her courage as he stood, readying himself to go. "You've…never been intimate with another person, have you?"

He froze. He could have been a statue carved from beskar. Motionless, he stood there in the noon sunlight, and then he was gone without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

_You idiot, you pushed him too hard._ Omera chastised herself endlessly, waist-deep in the water of the krill pools, cleaning out the traps, fixing the broken ones. Her whole village surrounded her, as they always had: all working together, singing, laughing, talking, and yet she was withdrawn, into herself, a silent stone in the river of people. _You have pressured a man you barely know. He will resent it._

But when she went back to the house in the early evening, Winta was there, feeding the Child, who gurgled in excitement, its large ears twitching, as it ate morsels of frog and krill, and the Mandalorian was sitting on the front porch, watching. She paused just outside the pool of light from her own door and watched him. He too, stood outside the light, as if unsure whether he should go in, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head bent to watch her daughter play with the Child. His helmet turned toward her, and he raised a hand by way of greeting. Omera came up to the step. "Sistershine," he said, uncertainly.

She smiled, surprised. "Sistershine," she answered back. "Winta, did you eat?"

"Yes, Mama, at Desi's house." Winta looked up. "She wants me to come sleep the night there. Can I?"

Omera had to laugh. "Go tell Rhea she owes me a favor. You may go spend the night, but only if you promise to not be up at middle-night telling ghost stories."

"Oh, _Mama!_ Thank you!" Winta patted the Child on the head and looked pleadingly at the Mandalorian. "Can we—can he come, too?"

He sighed, a fuzzy burst of static. "I don't see why not. Go on. Make sure he sleeps."

"Yes, sir," she squeaked, thrilled, and picked up the Child, who squeaked in glee as she carried him off and into the dusk.

Omera watched her go, and then she turned to the Mandalorian. "I…I did not mean to embarrass you earlier today," she said softly.

"No. I didn't think that was your intent."

"How is your hand?" She leaned down and wrung out her wet skirt, water splattering on the boards.

"Much better. Thank you."

She was at a loss entirely. "Would you—like to come inside? You could sleep in here, if you want to. It'll just be me."

His head swiveled back and forth, as if torn. "I shouldn't infringe on your home. Won't people talk?"

Omera laughed. "Let them talk. Come inside."

* * *

They sat on the mats, Omera with a cup of hot red tea, and the Mandalorian with nothing, fully armored and helmeted. It should have been strange, but it somehow wasn't, and Omera fiddled with the pouch at her waist, racking her brains for how to bring up the thing she wanted to offer: the thing they had been so close to speaking about and yet not close at all.

"I… found something today," she said, glancing up at him.

"Did you?" he asked.

"Yes. It's—well, it's this," and from her pouch she drew an inky-black cloth, so dark that light hardly played on it at all. "It's krooshta cloth. I got it from a travelling peddler years ago, but I never used it, and I remembered I had it in a box somewhere today, so I got it out." She passed it to him, and held her breath.

"Krooshta cloth," he said tonelessly, and passed it through his gloved hands. "Absorbs all light on the ultraviolet spectrum. Why did you buy it?"

"I thought it would come in handy, as a curtain for Winta's rooms." Omera sat back on her haunches. "She didn't care to be in quite that much pitch blackness, though. So I put it away. Too many credits to justify getting rid of it."

"Pitch…blackness," he mused slowly, as if tasting the words.

"Try it yourself," she told him.

He held it up in front of the slitted visor of his helmet, and for a second Omera allowed herself to breathe again. His arms were steady and still, his fingers clasping the fabric, and slowly he lowered it back down. "Total visual obscuration. A hundred percent."

"Anyone," she prompted, heart pounding, "with this tied securely over their eyes would be—blind. Very blind. In every sense of the word."

And there it was, hanging between the two of them. The Mandalorian sat very still, the krooshta cloth puddled in his lap like a black hole, and Omera looked at her hands, afraid to move. What if he said no? What if he—

"Oh," he said, in a very different tone of voice. "You—oh. I—I see." He cleared his throat, and tensed his shoulders, hunching forward a little. "You asked me if I had ever been intimate with anyone before. I assumed you meant emotional intimacy, and physical intimacy. And—the answer to both of those is no."

"Oh," she said, stricken at the thought of a life like that. "I'm sorry. That must be lonely."

He'd gone silent again, lifting the cloth, passing it from hand to hand. "Not really. I don't…I'm not sure how I'd handle being… exposed." The helmet tilted up, then back down: he was stealing a glance at her. "it's not something I'm used to."

"Your partner would have to be very understanding," said Omera. "And you would have to trust them, which I'm sure doesn't come easy for someone like you."

"It doesn't," he said. "But I've been thinking I might know a good candidate."

"Oh?" Omera raised her chin and looked at him directly.

His voice betrayed no hint of teasing. Maybe he didn't know how. "Yes. She's gentle, and thoughtful, and compassionate."

Omera gulped. "Is she?"

"Yes." Suddenly his voice changed, as if doubting. "It's—it's you. You do know that—?"

"Of course I know that," said Omera, trying to hide a smile. "You're not very good at flirting."

"It's not in the Guild requirements," he said, sounding like he might be smiling. "So—so what did you, uh, have in mind with the krooshta cloth?"

"Well, I was thinking," began Omera, as if she hadn't been going over every little detail in her min , "I could—take off my clothing, and then put the blindfold on. Then you could remove your armor and helmet, and we could. You know."

There was another long silence. "Sleep together," he said. "Right."

"We don't have to—do anything you don't want to do," she hastened to add. "It can be hard, trusting someone."

"You'll have to trust me, too," he said, suddenly doubtful. "You'll be blind."

"Yes. It's—a mutual learning to trust," she said, twisting the fabric of her apron into a knot. "Let me, um, close the house up. Night chills, you know." She stood without waiting for a response and went around lowering all the mats down, closing the house off into its own little reed-walled world. She was lucky enough to have a home on the edge of the village, where it was quiet, but she did not care for the idea of being interrupted by some nosy old busybody.

Back to the central room she went, and to her surprise she saw that the Mandalorian had already removed his gloves. The tiny gesture touched her, and she knelt in front of him, took his hands (the cut was healing very nicely), and placed them to her mouth, kissing the knuckles.

A soft sound that could have been a snort, or a gasp, or any number of wordless exclamations burst from the helmet in a static cloud. "Omera," he said, unsteady even though the mask.

"I just realized—I don't know what I should call you," she whispered, looking up at him. "Not Mando. That’s just—I don't know, impersonal, it sounds like—"

"I don't say my name," he said, his bare fingers tightening around hers. "Not since I put on my helmet. I can't."

"That's okay," Omera quickly amended, feeling like she'd upset something else she'd not been supposed to touch. "I'll—is it all right if I take off my clothes?"

"Yes," he said, letting go of her hands as she stood. Off came the thick, felted collar, off came the apron: off came the boots and the trousers and the knee-length dress and the plain, short-sleeved under-dress, and there she was, naked as the day she was born, in front of a Mandalorian in full armor who had not moved a muscle the entire time.

"I'll—I'll put the blindfold on," she said, quickly picking it up. "You know where my bedroom is. The walls are double-thatched, and the bed is comfortable."

"I know where it is," he said in a thick voice. "Come here."

She stepped over to him as he stood, and one bare hand tentatively reached out, the fingers trembling, and brushed her bare flank. "You've…never seen a naked woman?" she ventured.

"Not…one in real life. Or this close up." The helmet gleamed in the firelight as the reflection curved across it, his head moving from side to side. "You. You look very nice."

"That's good," she said, eyebrow raised. "Should I put the blindfold on now?"

"Yes. No. I'll put it on you. I want—" He choked himself off a moment, the continued. "I want you to help me take it off. The armor."

"I can do that," she said, and handed him the cloth. He took it in his hands, testing the give and strength of it, before reaching up with a nod. That was the last she saw before he carefully tied the krooshta cloth around her face, leaving her nose and mouth free, but her eyes and half her forehead swathed in black, black, black. His hands guided hers to the fastenings, and she felt the fire-warmed beskar under her fingertips, hard and smooth: with his guidance the plates came away, chest and shoulder: he took off his gauntlets and she felt for the fastening at his collar, which sprang open at her touch, then down to his belt, which she undid carefully, trying not to blush: she was a grown woman of almost forty years, who had had a husband, to whom this was nothing new: why did she feel like this?

"Hold a moment," he said. "Boots. Shinguards. Stay right there. Don't move." She waited, blind, and heard the clank and thunk as he removed his leg armor, then his holster, then what must have been his boots from the slipping sound.

His hand touched hers again, and she jumped, not expecting it. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. I thought you might—want to remove the helmet."

"Yes, I would," she said firmly, and shook his fingers off, both palms pressed flat to his chest. Up, up her hands drifted, up to the shoulders, now bare of armor, but covered in thick clothing. Her fingers found the rim of the helmet, and she pressed her hands flat to each side before taking a deep breath and lifting up. She could not shake the distinct sensation that she was lifting the man's head off his shoulders, and it persisted until a pair of hands took the helmet from her and a voice she recognized said, "Omera," very carefully.

"I knew that modulator was ringing true," she said, smiling. "You still sound like you." A low baritone, slightly tired edge, maybe: it was him, and her hands went back to his shoulders, his neck. "Can I touch your face?"

"Yes," he breathed, and she carefully, carefully let her palms drift over smooth cheeks (he must shave every day, probably for comfort in that helmet) a chin, a nose, eyebrows—her thumbs just brushed his eyelashes, delicate and long, and he blinked—back to his temples, where she found ears, and hair: it had not been cut in some time, by the feel of it, and fell to cover his forehead and ears.

"Shaggy," she murmured, combing the strands with her fingers. "Can you tell me what color it is?"

He hesitated, so long that she was afraid she'd offended him. "Brown," he finally said, then "dark brown."

"Dark brown," she mused, trying to paint a picture in her mind of the face under her hands. It did not work, and she sighed, bringing her hands back down to his clothing. "Do you want to get out of the rest of this?"

When he spoke, it was low and firm. "Yes. First, though, let's go to the bedroom."

* * *

He took Omera's hands and led her with the absolute most care she'd ever been handled with in her life. The air in the bedroom felt cooler, and she shivered, but he guided her to the bed, where she sat, reaching up for him. "I can get the shirt," she said, and undid the laces, fumbling a little. The fabric was ungainly and did not flow easily. "It's rough. What is it?"

"Blast-dampening weave," he said, his hands resting awkwardly on her thighs. He had not made a move to touch her much at all, and she was strangely grateful for it—for now. "Under that, I have—"

"A real shirt," Omera finished, tracing the soft thin fabric under his blastproof padding as she pushed the thick, heavy weave off his shoulders. She reached down to his waist and pulled the shirt off too, over his head, and the warm hands on her thighs tightened a little as she laid a tentative couple of fingers on his bare torso, but aside from that there was no sound or movement that warned or greeted her as she began to explore his upper body. He was very strong, that much was clear as she stroked his flanks and chest and arms, trying to work out the shape of him. Lean, and built for agility and power, broad in the shoulder, with muscle that came from hard training and fighting, muscle lying under—she pressed her thumbs to his belly, rubbing slightly—yes, that was a small layer of fat: energy reserve. Good, he was healthy: a fact she'd known subconsciously for some time, but all the same, it was nice to be right. He had sparse chest hair, and a rough patch of skin along one side of his waist: several old ridges of hard flesh snaking over his arms and chest, and his navel rested in another patch of soft hair, that led to—

A hand snaked out and caught her by the wrist as her fingers rested by the band of his trousers. "Wait," he said, voice gone rough. "I'll do it."

"All right." Omera waited, listening for the rustle of his trousers slipping off, and heard a soft slide of fabric across skin, then the two steps he took to step out of the legs, but the bed did not depress again with his weight. She frowned, head turning back and forth. "Are you—"

"I'm standing by the bed," he said quickly, and she reached out, fingers brushing the sharp line of his hip. He made a little sound, and she pulled her hand away, unsure of whether it was a displeased sound or not.

"I'm sorry. I—"

"No, it's all right. Reach your—reach out." She did, and he took her hand and gently pulled it down first his left side, then his right, then down the middle, where her fingers trailed through soft hair and he let go of her just as she had reached the base of—

"Ah," she said, blushing. "This—you want me to—"

"Yes. Touch it." He sounded half-choked, and added as an afterthought, "Please."

Well, Omera had never been one to shy away from a challenge. Her fingers drifted down again and curled lightly around—or as far around as she could reach—a very thick, very warm appendage, already swollen with blood and hard as stone. Her hand drifted to the end, around, and back down, trying to gauge the size of him. "You're… a little bigger than I expected," she said, doubtfully.

"Is that. Is that. Bad." The Mandalorian was having some trouble breathing, it sounded: every word was a half-gasp. One of his hands covered her wandering right one, and he squeezed the fingers.

"No, not at all. Are you all right?" She squeezed his hand in answer: he sounded like he'd just run a klick and a half, and his hands were shaking a little.

"I'm... I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine." She let go of his cock, and put her hand on his hip instead.

He cleared his throat. "I am. Really. It's—it's the touching. Nobody's touched me in decades, not on…my skin."

"It must be strange to you," Omera mused. "Do you—would you like to lie down?"

"Yes," he told her, and then she felt the bed depress, sink down as he settled to her left side. Blindly, she turned her head toward him, and felt with her hands: he was on his back, shoulders flat, face up, with his arms at his sides in almost military rest. Perhaps he did not know that people touched each other in bed.

Suggestions were more well received, normally, than orders. "You can, ah, touch me. If you—if that's—"

He did not answer, but one hand went to her knee, and carefully, carefully ran up the inside of her thigh, where the skin was softest. Omera shivered and waited, letting him explore her: he had never done this before, and maybe she had to let him work out some things on his own. His calloused hand slid upward and brushed her right breast, almost indifferently, then paused and went back again, cupping, lifting, testing. A thumb brushed her nipple, and Omera sighed lightly, biting her bottom lip.

Immediately the hand was gone. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she said, frowning at the loss. "It felt good."

"Oh." Back went the hand, brushing her right nipple again until it stood up in a hard little nub, and after he was satisfied with that little experiment he tried the other one. Omera lay there, too afraid to touch him lest he startle, and slightly surprised that she was already wet: he hadn't even kissed her yet. Maybe he didn't know how to kiss. That was an idea.

"You—you can. Ah. Do you—have you ever kissed anyone?"

There was a dry little chuckle from her left as he sat up and traced her ribs with a finger. "No. But I know what kissing is."

"Well, yes. I was just going to suggest, um, that you—you could kiss me. Anywhere you want to, really."

"You like being kissed on your body?" he said, sounding slightly puzzled. "Like this?" There was a warm exhale of breath at her shoulder, and Omera nearly melted as a soft, firm mouth pressed itself to her skin there.

"Yes," she managed, "like that."

"You're shivering and turning red here," he mused, touching her sternum gently. "I guess you do like it."

"Do you—think, um, that you would like it?" Omera was dying to crawl into his arms and fling all abandon to the wind, but she felt like she was in the middle of taming a wild beast: she must be careful, gentle, tender. "If I, I mean, um, did it to you?"

There was a silence. "I don't think I ever thought about it," he said finally, "but I'd…I think I'd like you to do it. To me, I mean."

Omera sat up, reaching out for his arms and positioning him back down to the bed on his back. "Okay," she said, fighting the urge to straddle his hips, "you just lie there, and let me—" She found his chest with her fingers and bent, sightlessly meeting her mouth to her hands, pressing a gentle, dry kiss to his skin, and he smelled like ozone and metal and leather and deep space.

The Mandalorian let out a yelp and seized her hair tight in one hand. Omera lifted her head quickly, ignoring the slight pain. "What? Was it too—"

When he spoke, he sounded as ragged as an old reed mat. "No, _no,_ stay there, stay—it was, it was good. Good." His hands flexed, releasing her hair. "Sorry," he said, as an afterthought.

Omera didn't need any more encouraging. She found her place again, bent further down, and lapped gently at his nipple, a hard, flat little spot. He jerked his hips up, dragging her down onto him fully, and clutched her back, groaning. Omera lifted her head. "We don't have to—we can slow down, if—"

" _No,_ no slowing down," he grunted, his arms trembling as they held her. " _Shab, osik_ , that's—good."

She couldn't help it. She leaned forward, wriggling out of his grasp, and kissed him on the lips, as fully and completely as she could, and he moaned helplessly into her mouth, hands shaking as she pressed her body to his, her wet soft parts to his hard one. "It's okay," she panted, brow pressed to his. "I'll take care of you."

He twisted under her, both hands planted firmly on her backside, and a guttural sound escaped his chest, dark and needy. "You—you'll have to do it, I don't. I don't know how." There was a note of shame to his voice, and Omera kissed him on the cheek, then sat up, fumbling in the blackness. She got his cock in hand, and pulled it to the front, so that it jutted out from between his belly and her parts, which she could feel—yes, she could feel that, and she wished to the Sisters she could see his face when she took him.

"I want to hear you," she told him, rubbing at the head of his cock with her thumb. "I can't see you, but I want—I want to know how you feel when it—when I put it in me."

"In you," he repeated, sounding wrecked already, and Omera realized belatedly that may he didn't _know_ all the details of human copulation: why would he, raised since he was a child for war and only war?

"Yes. Here." She took his hand and drew it between her legs, letting him feel the heat and the softness and the way she was so wet she was almost dripping. "You put yours here, all the way, then we go for a little ride, and once we're both done we separate."

"You're too small. It's not—gonna fit," he said in a very strained voice as a single finger slipped its way into her, testing the waters.

Omera smiled. "You promised to trust me, remember?"

"Yes," he answered, after a moment. "All right. Do it."

She brought her hips forward, notching him at the tip. The Mandalorian grunted softly, hands tightening on her waist. "What did you mean, both done—" His words were cut off in a choked tangle of senseless noise as Omera took him in, slowly, slowly: he stiffened under her and she felt for his arms: corded and taut as wire and both fists grasped the woven blankets on her bed. He got a word out once she was sitting snugly on him, full all the way up. " _Omera_ —"

"Shh," she crooned, feeling for his face and stroking his cheek. He was sweating, moisture coming away on her fingertips, and his hair was damp where she touched it at the temples—or was it tears? "It's all right. I'll wait until you're ready—"

"Move," he gasped, thrusting in small movements under her that kept stopping halfway through, as if he was afraid to complete them. " _Move_ , move—"

Omera pinned his shoulders back and began to gently cant her hips, thrusting him in and out, and the sweet, rough drag and swell of him inside her was better than anything she'd ever known as broken little sounds poured out his mouth. His hands tightened on her backside and he crudely pulled her down, trying to chase whatever rhythm his body had set: Omera followed suit, letting him guide her into a quicker pace, and that was when he _really_ let himself break apart.

"Omera," he choked, meeting her movements with clumsy thrusts. "Omera. Good. So good. Don't—don't stop it, ever, don't, I can't—want, can't—" A string of unintelligible syllables poured out of his mouth, and Omera bent down, pressing herself flat, and rolled over, moving so he was atop her.

"You do it, you do it," she panted, thighs spread and hands clinging to his shoulders.

"I don't kn—know what—" He thrust awkwardly, groaning, and bent his head to rest on her shoulder.

"Yes, you do. It's instinct. Every human has it." She reached up and tugged his knee forward for bracing pressure. "Don't think. Just do."

"Dyn Jarren," he gasped, and slammed into her, almost falling over, but catching himself with one hand planted in her hair. She yelped, and he hastily untangled himself, re-adjusting his angle and driving himself home again. "My name," he ground out through his teeth. Tears filled Omera's eyes behind the blindfold, and she clutched him close, heels planted into his back as he clung to her and thrust, torn little noises bursting out of his mouth. "Is th-this, is it good?" he spluttered, hands gripping her thighs so hard she was sure she'd have bruises. "Am I doing it—right, am I—"

"Just, just," Omera grunted, and shoved her hand clumsily down between their bodies, rubbing at herself and moaning in the flood of sensation that greeted her, spiraling from her pelvis up her spine. " _Oh,_ Dyn, don't stop—"

"Too late," he choked, and drove himself deep for the last time, hips stuttering in half-aborted little movements as he emptied himself into her body, crying out his release into the crook of her neck. Omera held onto him, not really begrudging him his lack of stamina in this regard, and waited, stroking his hair until he had relaxed completely atop her, heavy and still.

It was warm now in the bed, but Omera still wanted her own turn, and patted lightly at his back. "Dyn," she whispered into his hair. Her hips moved a little under him. "I wasn't done yet."

He grunted and turned his head, nose pressing into her neck. "Sorry," he said hoarsely. "Can I help?"

Omera had to smile. "Yes. Use your hand. Like this." One of her hands guided one of his down between her legs, and he peeled himself off her with interest, kneading and rubbing as she showed him. He was a quick learner, and Omera soon let go of his wrist, catching her lip in her teeth and grunting as the warmth pooling in her belly built and built, until she couldn't hold it back anymore, and released with a shout of pleasure, relaxing as his fingers left the swollen, soft tissues at the crux of her thighs and trailed across her belly.

"I want to see your eyes when you do that," he said softly, hands coming to rest on her waist. "Your mouth… you looked like a feral animal."

"Maybe you made me feel like one," Omera said, dizzy with relief and swimming in a heady fog of endorphins. "You can do it again to me. You could take the blindfold off. I would keep my eyes shut."

"You would," he said, one hand leaving her waist to trace over her cheek. "You would. All right. Close them. Keep them closed."

Omera shut her eyes obediently and sighed as the heavy cloth was lifted off her face, cool air snaking about her sweaty forehead. "You should…use your mouth," she suggested, spreading her legs open a little. "If you like that idea, anyway."

One blunt finger trailed its way through tender folds of flesh, still sticky with his own spend. "Yes," he said, voice heavy and dark. "Yes. I do."

"Dyn," she breathed, and he physically shuddered, trembling as he moved down the bed and knelt between her thighs, his mouth brushing over her lower belly, breathing soft there. "I'll tell you how."

"I can do it," he insisted, and buried his face between her legs, moaning through his nose as his tongue lapped and traced figures and laid flat, rubbing: his lips kissed her, his hands stroked her legs, petting down the dark, downy hair on her skin. "Mmm," he mumbled.

Omera was half-bent backward, shaking. "Dyn. _Dyn Jarren_ , oh, oh, moons, _moons,_ what are you—how did you— _Dyn—"_ The temptation to open her eyes was so strong that she had to fight it: to see the expanse of back stretched out under her thighs in supplication? To see his body under hers, the head of shaggy dark brown hair she knew he had? She clapped a hand over her eyes, crying out as he did something completely wicked with his tongue that sent her squirming up toward another peak. "Oh, don't, don't stop, Dyn, don't stop—" He was a fast and adaptable learner: he was listening to her body, how she wanted things, and doing them: doing them with parts of his body he had never used on another person. Omera cried out, hand still clapped to her eyes.

"Hand down," he gasped, lifting his head and rubbing at her frantically with one hand, not letting her slip out of the rhythm for a single moment. "I want to see you, I want—"

Omera tore her hand away, eyes squeezed shut with all the strength she had left, and jerked up on her elbows as he pushed her over the edge and she threw her head back and wailed, wailed like she was giving birth again, like everything in all creation had come pouring out from between her legs at once. He panted, catching his breath, and stroked her sides gently as she came down, down into the soft bed, and let sleepy satiation take her for a minute. She became dimly aware that he was stroking her cheek with his bare thumb, and almost opened her eyes, but remembered herself. "Did you…like it?" she asked, smiling with her eyes still shut.

"I did," he told her. "It… almost feels like fighting, but toward the same goal, not opposites. Like fighting together, with each other. Sparring." He shifted his weight and sighed. "You…should forget my name. Don't ever speak it. I…got carried away."

"I'll not speak it again," she said wearily. So many secrets, these Mandalorians: hidden faces, secret names, and muddied pasts all wrapped up in shining armor. "I'm just…I feel I've finally properly expressed my appreciation for what you've done for us. All of us."

He snorted. "Appreciation. Well, if every being in the galaxy showed appreciation like you just did, we'd have no more credits."

Omera rolled over on her back, grinning. "You can sleep here, if you're comfortable doing so," she said. "All your things are here, so you can dress before Winta comes home in the morning."

"Was this...just about appreciation?" he asked, hesitant as the bed depressed and raised in odd places. Omera didn't bother to decipher the movements: she was tired.

"No," she said honestly. "It wasn't just about appreciation."

There was a silence, and then the bed shifted again. "You're very kind," he murmured. "Kinder than I deserve. I'll sleep in the barn tonight." Omera frowned, and he must have noticed. "You're not pleased with that. You want me to stay here?"

"At least until I'm asleep, if you would," she said, rolling to her side. "I… I like having a body by me. It's warm. And I like the closeness."

"Intimacy," he mused, and the bed sank down another few centimeters, his body sliding in alongside hers as he lifted the blankets and covered them both up. "Yes. I see. This is…very close."

"Mmm. Good night." She twisted her head back and kissed him on the closest bit of his face available, which felt like the cheek, before turning back over and wedging herself against him, letting her breathing slow into a soft, even pace.

She was almost asleep when he lifted himself on one elbow, stroked a lock of hair away from her ear, and whispered, "Thank you, Omera," as soft as a cloud, a wisp of fog, a puff of smoke before rising from the bed, tucking her blankets around her, and departing as silently as a ghost.


End file.
